


Days Like These

by emmram



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Gen, just a silly snippet that's mostly banter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-03
Updated: 2016-06-03
Packaged: 2018-07-12 02:08:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7080304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmram/pseuds/emmram
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a hot, uncomfortable afternoon. There's a bit of banter. Aramis braids d'Artagnan's hair. Both of them bring out the drama queen in each other.</p><p>Response to an anon prompt on tumblr.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Days Like These

**Author's Note:**

> No specific spoilers. Can be safely set after 1.10.

It was a hot, muggy afternoon. The air seemed to settle on the skin like a wet blanket and insinuate itself into the lungs with every gasping breath, viscous and overcooked. Flora and fauna alike wilted beneath this onslaught, and there was nary a peep from even the hardiest critter. In short, it was not the kind of weather that was preferred by chroniclers, who looked for dark, stormy nights and pleasant, crisp spring mornings to inflame and soothe the heart in turn—

“Shut up, Aramis,” d’Artagnan groaned. “Don’t make me come over and hit you; it’s too hot for that.”

Aramis blinked. “Sorry—was I musing out loud?”

“If that’s what you call it.”

Aramis gathered as much of his dignity as he could muster. “I’ll have you know, young d’Artagnan, that this silver tongue has accomplished much: it has conquered the hearts and bodies of many women—well, _parts_ of their bodies, at any rate—”

“I _will_ hit you, Aramis.”

Aramis sighed and draped one arm over his eyes. He and d’Artagnan had taken refuge under the shade of a large tree as they waited for Athos and Porthos to return from a reconnaissance mission. They had stripped down to their undershirts and breeches in deference to the sweltering heat, lying back on the grass and grumbling about the weather and tardy Musketeers when they could find the energy for it.

At least he wasn’t wearing all that damnable leather anymore. He only wished he could take off his breeches as well—sweat was dripping down some rather uncomfortable places, and he’d much rather nip whatever was brewing down there in the bud before he had to get some horrific caustic medicine from the physician to do so. Casting a surreptitious glance at d’Artagnan, he quickly reached under his pants and scratched his groin.

“That’s disgusting, Aramis.”

 _Well, hell_. “I thought you were a farmer. From _Gascony_. I’d expected you’d be familiar enough with this kind of weather to at least tie your hair back.”

d’Artagnan raised his hand and the attached index finger in what was rapidly becoming a familiar gesture. “One does not just get _used_ to…” He trailed off, and his hand dropped limply to his chest.

Aramis rolled over and got a good look at him. d’Artagnan’s face was flushed, and his hair lay in sweaty clumps across his face and below his head. His eyes were scrunched closed, breathing in soft pants, and all in all, he looked fairly uncomfortable.

“Come on, sit up,” Aramis said finally. He grabbed their last waterskin and uncorked it with a touch of regret. Just a touch. “I don’t want to have to explain to Athos and Treville why I let our newest Musketeer die of heatstroke.”

“You could just say I was being stupid.”

“Yes, but unfortunately that’s a bit of a pre-requisite when it comes to the profession, so I hardly think they’d believe me. Now up,” Aramis said briskly, reaching for him.

d’Artagnan pulled away from him with a bit of unexpected effort. He eyed Aramis’ hands warily. “Not until you wash those.”

Aramis rolled his eyes.

“I’m serious.”

Reluctantly, he used a bit of their precious water over his hands, then moved to sit behind d’Artagnan, who was already starting to sway. He let d’Artagnan take a swig, then poured the rest of the contents of the waterskin over the young man’s head before he could so much as sputter a protest. He combed his fingers through d’Artagnan’s hair before gathering the strands in one hand. “What you need,” Aramis said, “is a distraction. I’m afraid my company tends to bring out the histrionic in you.”

“I wonder why,” d’Artagnan said in a low voice before saying, “It _is_ hot.”

“No, it’s not quite that hot. And another thing you need to know,” Aramis barrelled on, “is what to do with your hair, especially as you refuse to wear a hat.”

d’Artagnan shrugged. “Tie it back?”

“Right, _or_ —” Aramis dug his fingertips into d’Artagnan’s scalp and combed through the strands slowly but surely, teasing out any tangles. “I could braid your hair.”

d’Artagnan was already starting to lean back into Aramis, though this time it was more out of relaxation than discomfort. “A French braid?”

“Well,” Aramis said, moving through the smooth strands to start rubbing at d’Artagnan’s temples, “We’re in France, so it would just be a braid.”

“Huh.”

Aramis got to work then, pulling at the strands and twining them together, evoking a little hiss from d’Artagnan every now and then. He kept a strip of blue ribbon between his teeth to tie it off at the end.

About an hour later, Athos and Porthos arrived at their campsite to see d’Artagnan safely ensconced in Aramis’ arms as Aramis himself rested against a tree, both of them fast asleep. d’Artagnan’s rat-tail braid tickled Aramis’ nose, the bright ribbon bobbing with every peaceful breath.

Athos and Porthos did not speak for a while.

“It almost makes one wish, Porthos,” Athos mused finally, “that there existed a device that could capture this image instantaneously yet preserve every detail for posterity.”

Porthos snorted in laughter. “I could sketch a quick portrait, but I could hardly do this justice. ‘Specially the _ribbon_.”

“Then it is our duty to ensure the image remains fresh in our minds.”

“Talk about it at every available opportunity.”

“Perhaps even _recreate_ it a few times along the way.”

Aramis twitched, and pulled d’Artagnan closer.


End file.
